


All the Kisses in the World (Ever)

by SnowStormSkies



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: Adorable, Christmas, First Love, First Time, M/M, Nervousness, Relationship Discussions, Romantic Fluff, Sexual Content, Sweet, botTom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowStormSkies/pseuds/SnowStormSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's almost Christmas, Bill's got a lot on his mind, and Tom just wants all the kisses in the world. Bill will give them to him, one by one. And then some.</p><p>Written for Secret Santa 2012 for the prompt of "Tom bottoming for Bill, AU, sweet and a bit fluffy". Hope I managed it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kariiin! Author's notes: I have never written AU before. I never will again. Behold, my one and only offering to the AU gods. I hope they are appeased. Mods, I'm going to go and sacrifice a large pile of chocolate to you now. And to my beta, Casey who is the single greatest beta ever to have lived. 
> 
> (Links in the story show Bill's tattoos. Click to see them)

**Chapter One**

“Kisses?”

“Always.”

Bill is well aware that he’s a hopeless romantic, has been since he was a child, and it’s supposed to be a bit cliché and boring, but what the fuck ever. He’s found Tom, and he’s never fucking stopping being romantic.

Judging from the way that Tom is clinging onto Bill’s shirt and looking up at him with an expression of wonder crossed with lust, he doesn’t think Tom minds. At all.

This is Bill’s perfect idea of a night in - a night in away from the horrible, crappy no good evil that is the London School of Art, Fashion and Design and the shitty teacher who tore apart his latest efforts to complete his men’s winter formal wear collection.

He’d spent ages planning and designing it, focusing on the sharpness of the cuts, and the symmetry that he felt suits should have, thinking about materials and colours so much he dreamed about the damn things.

And then his teacher, Sunitha, had hitched up her sari, raised an eyebrow, handed him back his folder, and told him that she expected better.

And it wasn’t just a little bit of a “maybe you should correct this, and I think this is good, but it needs to be taken further.” Nope, that’s what everybody else got.

Bill got bollocked. Hard.

Funny, but ever since Bill produced his third set of straight As for Men’s Work Fashion II, Sunitha’s been pushing him more and more, telling him to step it up, that he needs to focus on his senses and not just what his gut tells him, and sometimes, Bill would just like to be happy with a fucking B grade.

No, he wouldn’t; he’d go bonkers at that point because he is _Bill Kaulitz_ , and he might have been happy with an F in history, but nobody is going to say he failed fashion. It’s As all the way when it comes to design and fashion in _all_ of Bill’s classes, thanks very much. But that’s beside the point.

What is the point is that the teacher took a red pen to all of his mood boards and sketches, scrawling _no, I don’t like this, where’s your notes? I need to see references, too short, too high, you’ve done this before, where’s the influence? This feels rushed, did you try to mock this up? I need to see your photos, have you done your research?_ All over his amazing sketches and designs for suits and shit.

She handed them back to him after class, and that alone should have told him he’d fucked up royally, because she _always_ gives back workbooks during the lecture. He’d been really excited to know what was in there, honestly but after reading the notes, he’d been struck a little bit dumb. And if he’s honest, not far off of tears.

She told him he could get a grade redo if he sucked it up and got it back to her before the end of January.

And she’d slapped it with a _C_. A _C_! _A fucking_ C. Like Bill was one of the idiots who sat at the back of the class and fucked around with the sewing machines, and ended up stitching themselves to the table, and tried to be _scene_ or whatever. Bill is a fucking artist, thanks very much. And he hasn’t stitched himself to the table since his first summer with Auntie Shay in her LA office. He was _six_ , and he hasn’t done it since. This grade feels like he has managed it, though. Great. Thanks. Really. It might be a letter C to anyone else, but to Bill, it’s a direct insult. Sunitha couldn’t have done it better if she’d called him a fucking moron right to his face.

And now he’s got to recreate it a hundred times better to get the A he _knows_ he should be aspiring towards. Not like it’s three fucking months worth of work or whatever – nah, he can just knock that out of the park in just, oh, three weeks.

God, Bill hates teachers sometimes.

And going home via the Underground, too – after the shitty day at uni, praying for a hole to swallow him up, he had to leave the nice warm building and go out into the freezing cold rain. Bill does not _like_ the rain. Even though his head is now shaved, and it doesn’t matter if he gets it wet because it doesn’t go frizzy or flat like it did before, it still sucks to be stuck in the pissing rain, lugging two large folders of work and a backpack with a laptop in across London without a hat.

And Bill’s head gets cold.

That’s one side effect they _don’t_ tell you about when you shave it all off. All that nice insulating hair – gone. Poof.

Goddamnit.

But yeah. Bill heartily wishes he didn’t have to travel across London during rush hour on the Tube, because it’s like a fucking sardine can, only less fun. Today he managed to hit the jackpot after missing two trains because they were packed to the gunnels. He landed himself a carriage – standing room only too – with three screaming kids, two separate couples having a fight, and some fucking idiot who absolutely _had_ to scream into their mobile about someone who slept with someone else, and there were facebook messages involved, and it was such a fucking tragedy or whatever.

 _Hamlet_ is a tragedy. Crocs are a tragedy. Front pleats on tapered trousers cut too short on anybody are a tragedy.

Facebook dramas are **dramas**. Hence the name **drama**.

Different things, see?

But Bill had to endure listening to this idiot go on and on, stuck in a tiny carriage and trying not to die from the smell of steaming rubber and rank feet. For twenty straight minutes. Oh, fuck that shit. It was through sheer strength of will (and trying to keep in mind the penalty for murder) that Bill made it off that train without maiming himself or others.

It’s London, and driving a car for a student, even one from Knightsbridge who has his flat paid for by Mummy and Daddy, is a pretty terrible idea, especially when ‘driving’ in London is actually mostly sitting at traffic lights and getting frustrated at stupid one way systems, but, man, Bill would _love_ to have a fucking car sometimes. His own little world away from the rest of humanity.

Right now, his apartment is being that shelter from the hell that this Monday has been. So, yeah. It’s been a shitty day, and outside, the wind howls, and the rain hammers the windows. It’s London, it’s three weeks before Christmas and Bill’s done with everything to do with the season, because everything is shitty, and nothing is okay anymore.

Seriously.

“Kisses, Bill.” Tom’s got one hand around the back of Bill’s neck and the other one holding a fistful of Bill’s shirt, and he’s pulling on both. “Now.”

Okay, _one_ thing isn’t so shitty.

Bill grins. There’s the Tom he knows and loves. “Demanding, are we?”

“Yes.” Tom is absolutely shameless tonight – not that Bill objects – and he doesn’t even smile at Bill’s question. “You made me come here, in the rain and the cold, on the tube across London and it’s fucking nearly Christmas, so everywhere was chaos, and you promised me kisses. So gimme.”

He did. Bill phoned Tom from the lobby of the uni, trying to delay going out into the downpour, and he did promise Tom kisses. _All the kisses in the world, Tom, please. I just need someone to be with tonight – it’s been a shitty day. Please._

“So?” Bill plays dumb, and Tom actually _pouts_. Oh, that’s just precious.

“So, **kisses** , Bill, or I’m going home.” Tom is beyond unconvincing when he threatens to go home and leave Bill on his own in the flat. Bill is well aware of Tom’s love for this place – it’s warm, there’s good food and a big tv, and an amazing bed to cuddle up in, and he knows that Tom wouldn’t leave ever if he didn’t have to go to college and Bill didn’t have to go to uni. Even if Bill didn’t give him kisses, he’d still be wrapped up in the blanket on the couch watching awesome films on blu-ray and raving about the power shower in the ensuite.

Tom is such a sucker for a good…shower.

But Bill gives into the blackmail anyway, letting Tom think he’s won that much.

Bill’s worked hard on converting Tom to his way of thinking about kisses, chiefly by subjecting him to as many of them as he possibly can, at every opportunity, whether or not Tom expects it. Bill likes kisses; they’re not precursors, something that you do _instead_ of sex or whatever in Bill’s book. They’re an art in and of themselves, requiring skill, dexterity, and passion to _really_ be something special, not just a cursory smooch or peck on the cheek. He’s rather proud of Tom’s progress in that area as well.

Long, languid kisses in the sunshine, coffee flavoured kisses when they meet between Bill’s classes in the indie coffee house down the road, little tradeoff pecks in the morning on the way out the door, hot and heavy making out in the bedroom, Bill loves every kind of kisses, and he’s made Tom love them too. There’s nothing like the slip and slide of someone’s lips past yours, the way that you can touch and lick and completely undo someone emotionally and physically with just your mouth without a word. That’s perfection, in Bill’s book.

Right now, they’re sailing pretty close to that perfection again.

They’re flat on the sofa, tangled up together like lazy cats, because that’s the best way to be when sucktastic days hit hard, like today. Bill’s couch is exactly right for snuggling on – old, wide, and so comfortable you can sink through it and never mind about the crappy pattern. With a blanket pulled up around their shoulders, and the lights turned down, they’ve been kissing for at least twenty minutes now, and it’s a great defence against the winter storm that’s still going outside. Nothing like keeping the cold at bay by going hot and heavy with the making out.

Tom’s happy to agree.

But Bill wants more.

As in… more more.

As in sex.

Or, you know, anything.

Wandering hands, blow jobs, even hand jobs, maybe even some bump and grind, whatever he can get, he’ll take it.

Because they’ve not done anything yet. Like, anything. Sex-wise at least.

“More…” Bill’s backed off, but Tom doesn’t care about his need to breathe. Grabbing Bill’s shirt, he tries to pull him back.

Tom is ridiculously needy when it comes to kisses and touches like this, and Bill likes it so much because there’s nothing like making someone feel good with your hands and your body. It’s an awesome way to build up to even _more_. But they’ve been taking it slow. As in, keeping to hands above the waist, and even though they’re sharing a bed, it’s not for sex. It’s for sleep.

Because Tom doesn’t want to move fast. And neither does Bill, if he’s honest. Spending eight months learning about another person, getting to know them before getting to know their body has been a novel experience. It’s been nice – new and strange but wonderful to take the sex off the table and focus on their relationship as people. Dinner, movies, walks in the park, all the silly romantic stuff that Bill has been craving in a relationship and that Tom has been delightfully amenable to, that’s what they’ve been focusing on.

That’s not to say they _haven’t_ been kissing. Making out. Getting hot and heavy. That kind of thing. Bill’s certainly acquired his taste for Tom’s silver lip ring against his mouth, and Tom’s got nothing bad to say about the tongue stud in Bill’s, either.

But it’s not _really_ moved on from there.

They never explicitly lay down the terms of engagement as ‘no touching below the belt’ or whatever, but that’s the way the cards have fallen. And Bill’s never tried to change that, and neither’s Tom.

Until now.

Over the last few weeks, Bill’s become increasingly aware that it’s going to be up to him to move their relationship onwards. Tom’s content to stay at kisses and shy romance on the outside. He doesn’t _ask_ Bill for more, for extra kisses, for hands further down below the belt and Bill is coming to the understanding that Tom _won’t_ ever ask. At least, not this year.

It’s a step too far for Tom, requiring confidence and openness to start framing the request of _I want sex_ to Bill that he just doesn’t have at this stage.

But even though his brain can’t articulate that want, his body can. He’s subconsciously pushing for more with his hands, with his mouth – the jokes that are supposed to just be funny, but end up _really_ flirtatious, the way he presses his body against Bill’s even more when they’re kissing or making out on the sofa – it’s adding up to something else. It’s in the smallest of movements, the way he acts – tilting his head, biting his lip, even the way he’s walking is changing.

It’s all adding up to a picture that Bill _wants_.

Namely, sexual contact.

And to put Tom on a catwalk because that kid has got some _serious_ swagger at the moment.

“Nrgh.” Bill purses his lips. He’s halfway to hard, and he knows that Tom probably isn’t far behind, but… what if…

“What?” Tom is curious, absently still stroking at the [tattoo on the back of Bill’s neck](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/kseenaa/1562626/1359192/1359192_original.jpg). It’s his favourite thing to do when Bill is distracted because it usually brings him right back to Tom and whatever they were doing.

It didn’t take Tom long to work that one out. About, oh, sixty seconds of Bill showing him the tattoo, and Tom had his hands all over it.

Smart little fucker.

“Shush, Tom.”

But the fact that Tom obviously is comfortable – he’s not even twitchy like he usually is when they stop in the middle of a making out session – tells Bill that now’s probably going to be the best time to change everything up.

Yeah, why not? Bill throws caution to the wind. “Come here, pretty boy.”

“Wh- oh.”

It takes a little while for Bill to pull Tom completely underneath him, but they manage it without an issue. Much. It’s a very good thing that Bill’s couch is wide, or someone could have ended up flat on the floor. Bill adores having someone who’s as pliant and ridiculously trusting as Tom for a partner, because it means he doesn’t say anything when Bill’s pulling him to and fro. He’s so easy to convince to try something new, and even when Bill strips off his own vest top, leaving him in just his jeans, Tom doesn’t object.

For some reason, Bill didn’t think he would.

“You like?”

“Yes.”

Tom is wide eyed at the new exposed skin, and Bill knows he wants touch. Tom is a very tactile person, needing to explore everything with his hands as well as his eyes, and Bill can see the look in his eyes right now. He’s probably torn between reaching for Bill’s actual body and grabbing for a sketch pad. Bill laughs. It reminds him of his days modelling for art classes – a lot of time spent naked with strangers looking at him, and it felt good, but it feels way better to be looked at by someone who’s familiar and loved.

“Touch me,” he says, taking both of Tom’s hands, laying them on his chest. “Explore.”

Bill doesn’t feel weird, but Tom obviously does – he’s red faced, and laughing nervously even as he starts to explore. [Diving, twisting swallows; all eight of them catching a tail wind south down his chest, the sharp graphic lines on his shoulders](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/kseenaa/1562626/1359419/1359419_original.jpg), [the swirl and curve of the feathers across his hips](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/kseenaa/1562626/1358454/1358454_original.jpg), [the small masterpiece magpie on his bicep that took several sessions to ink to competition](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/kseenaa/1562626/1358134/1358134_original.jpg), Tom touches them all. His hands are warm and soft against Bill’s skin.

He’s already had his hands over the tattoo on Bill’s wrist before they got here - into this relationship. Bold, plain typeface where words should never be was one of the first things that Tom noticed about Bill, his very first tattoo that he ever got - [_I am the hero of this story, I don’t need to be saved_](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/kseenaa/1562626/1358884/1358884_original.jpg). Bill will never ever tire of seeing Tom trace those words that mean so much to him. Those combined with Freiheit ‘89, the year the Wall fell in Berlin, mean freedom to Bill in a different way to the swallows or the compass rose.

Bill is his own person, and nobody can take that away from him again.

Every tattoo has a weight attached to it, deep, visceral meanings that are painted onto his body with needles and ink; pictures and symbols from Bill’s past, parts of his life, and loves and philosophy about everything etched deep into his skin.

“Nice.” Tom’s probably not even aware of the way that he’s biting his lip, murmuring the word as he strokes the contours of Bill’s body, feeling the lines that the hours in the gym have carved into him, the way his muscles create, curves and roundness on a body that’s flat as a fucking post. “Is this – oh.”

It’s the nipple piercing that he’s found – the gold ring small and simple compared to the mass of necklaces that hang above it. That particular bit of body modding was one of the first things Bill had done when he turned eighteen, just because it was a perfect compliment to the fuck you femme look he was cultivating at the time.

He kept it even after he cut out the dreads, went through his pretty bobbed look, and dived headlong into Mohawk and true androgyny territory. All the way through his days of modelling for money, all the way through his years at Manchester Met, trying to study for a degree he didn’t want, enduring university life when he nearly crashed and burned from depression and anxiety – that little gold ring was one of the few constants about his appearance when he was changing it every few months.

When he was twenty two, he made a choice, cut his hair for the last time, and said goodbye to it all. He was burned out, his hair was colour frazzled, and his body was this close to exhaustion.

So he cut and ran.

And after a year, ditched the degree in Art and Politics, and moved back to London for his first love. Fashion. At the London School of Art, Fashion, and Design.

Now, he’s in his andro phase, out the other side of his femme life for good, with a shaved head and a bull ring through his nose, and muscles from working out with Georg and Gustav, and it feels _good_.

But the nipple ring is a reminder of where he came from, and he likes it.

So does Tom, apparently. He’s fascinated with the little gold ring, flipping it up and down with his thumb, studying the movement closely. It feels good – sends a pleasant faint jolt down to Bill’s groin – and he knows that he could let Tom play with it for hours. He’s already looking like he’s settling in for it. Those would be some damn fine hours, in Bill’s opinion, and he’s got plenty of time to spare tonight. But there are better things to be doing at the moment, even if Tom might beg to differ.

“It’s not going anywhere, Tom.” Bill closes his hand over Tom’s.

It catches Tom out, pulling him away from his momentary focus on what was under his fingers alone, and he looks startled.

“Wha-“

“Let’s be adventurous tonight,” Bill suggests, leaning down close to Tom. “It’ll be fun.”

“Where are – what – “ It’s hard for Tom to talk at the moment; he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place. So to speak. Bill’s hard place and the sofa? Whatever. But he nods enthusiastically when Bill prods him for an answer to the question _are you ready?_

“Tell me if you want to stop.” Bill holds onto Tom’s chin, waiting for him to actually look at Bill and not the wide expanse of chest and tattoos that’s on view. He knows it’s attractive and all that, but he needs Tom to give him attention. “And I’ll stop. Promise.”

“’kay.”

Not one word more passes between them because Bill feels that silence is more appropriate at the moment – holding a finger to Tom’s lips when he tries to ask what’ll happen next. Instead, once he gets the message, Tom obediently slides underneath Bill, spreading his knees and letting Bill settle between them.

Crotch to crotch.

Bill knows exactly what he wants to do, and he knows Tom’s trusting him to take the lead. And Bill’s more than happy to do that. It feels nice to be in the driving seat, so to speak. It’s frot that Bill’s planning on – frottage in the proper terms, dry rutting or humping in the vernacular, but Bill hates that. It makes it sound so... crass. Horrible. Cheap. And pleasure – good pleasure – is _never_ cheap. It can be quick, it can be messy, and it most certainly can be rough and ready, but it is never _ever_ fucking cheap. Frot is the best introduction to pleasure with someone else that Bill knows, and he hopes that Tom will agree.

After the fact, certainly. Judging from the look on his face at the moment, Tom’s torn between loving it and being completely overwhelmed by the bombardment of sensation.

It’s hot, and hard work in some ways, matching and keeping a pace that’s comfortable for them both, and Bill is aware of weighing a lot more than Tom, so he can’t rest his full weight on his partner, but…

Oh, _yes. Oh, fucking way better than yes, goddammit._

Bill is a connoisseur of pleasure and comfort, and he knows what he likes and what feels good. He’s using that to make this work, to make it feel awesome for Tom, and he knows that it will only get better and better. Once Tom learns more about his own wants, and his own needs, then he can start teaching them to Bill, and they can take their physical relationship up a notch.

But this? The bump and grind on the couch, not-quite-sex that feels damn amazing anyway, hot and thrilling because it’s about pleasure and feeling, and using each other’s bodies for yourself but _not_ …

Bill loves it.

And so does Tom.

“Talk to me.” Bill likes hearing feedback from his partner, checking in with them as well as listening to them describe their pleasure, and he wonders if Tom shares the same.

“Nn-no!” Tom’s touching Bill – searching for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing. Without his shirt on, Bill’s all sweat slick skin and fragile jewellery, and Tom’s left to wrap his arms around Bill’s chest and hope for the best. Bill’s in control of this ride, and Tom’s getting off when he says so. Well, of a sort. And Bill is not going to be slowing this down any time soon.

“You want me to stop?”

“F-fuck – no!” Tom shakes his head so hard Bill nearly gets smacked in the face, but it’s all positive signs.

In the dark of the living room, they carry on, skin hidden behind clothes, and the storm outside rages on, but Bill’s focused right here, on him and Tom, and everything else can fuck off.

It feels incredible – pushing their groins together, letting the friction of their jeans make everything feel too much and not enough at once. It’s exactly what Bill likes about frottage – aside from the word itself, because it just sounds awesome. He likes the way his jeans create friction, the way that everything under the blanket feels hot and sticky, how the feeling of being so close to someone but still not _in_ them makes everything feel like almost sex…

God, it’s amazing.

“Come – fuck –“ Tom’s mumbling under his breath – probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it, in all honesty. His hands are on Bill’s shoulders, holding Bill tight against himself as though they could get closer. They’re already only divided by four very thin layers of jeans and t-shirt, Tom’s t-shirt sliding up to reveal a tantalising silver of warm skin against Bill’s belly button ring. “ _Bill!_ ” His voice is needy and breathy, and it goes right to Bill’s dick, the pleasant jolt making him groan and press his hips down even harder.

He _really_ likes Tom calling out his name like that.

 _Really_.

Tom has no idea that it’s getting Bill closer and closer to the edge, having his name said over and over again like a mantra that’ll carry Tom through this pleasure. It _does_ things to Bill, makes him feel _powerful_ , and yeah, it’s pretty fucking ridiculous that hearing someone call his name in a very precise way can really rile Bill up in the best possible manner, but it _does_. His dick loves it, and his brain isn’t far behind in deciding that it’s quite possibly the best thing it’s heard _all fucking day_.

Tom himself doesn’t seem to mind Bill’s own personal kink, talking to his partner throughout it all. Maybe it’s because Bill’s got a big mouth; maybe it’s just because he’s a fucking ridiculously soppy person. But Bill loves talking to his partner, describing them, asking them how it feels, what they need – it’s verbal torture, he’s been advised by previous partners and he loves it.

So does Tom, apparently.

“Talk to me, Tom. Tell me what you need. Give me something.” Tom’s giving him almost everything – his mouth for kisses, his dick for pleasure, his hands around Bill’s shoulders so they don’t break apart, but Bill _wants_ more.

And dear, sweet Tom still wants to let him have it all.

He keeps trying to answer Bill’s questions – getting half way through a sentence and then losing it again because Bill doesn’t let up on grinding down, rubbing their dicks together through their trousers, letting the pleasure dictate pace and everything else. Even though two layers of jeans and boxers, it’s still phenomenally effective against Tom’s ability to speak. He can’t keep it together long enough to even begin to even get through more than Bill’s own name, never mind hold an _actual conversation_. He has no defense against the constant onslaught of touch, pressure, the collision between his body and Bill’s, and it’s really really touching for Bill to see how much Tom _trusts_ him. He would never _ever_ fall apart like this for anybody else.

Tom has trust issues – big ones, huge ones, issues that come into play against his sexuality, his disability, his lack of self confidence, issues about his body and weight and his past. More so than Bill did at that age, and that’s saying something. For Tom, letting people in behind those formidable walls of faux arrogance and teenage stupidity that he so loved to cultivate when he met Bill wasn’t just difficult, it was virtually impossible.

How times have changed.

But right now, that isn’t the Tom that’s underneath Bill’s body, that Bill can touch with his hands and kiss with his mouth.

This Tom won’t stop giving back to Bill, constantly relaying how he feels with gasps, with moans, pulling Bill closer to himself because he _wants_ more, and Bill willingly – lovingly, really – gives it.

“Love you so much, baby,” Bill whispers, and Tom shudders in pleasure.

 _Amazing_.

Tom doesn’t last that long, as Bill expected, coming in his jeans with a groan and a shiver running through him so strong Bill feels it reflecting in his own belly, throwing his head back and exposing that oh so perfect swan neck to Bill’s lips.

Bill loved that he could anticipate it – Tom’s incapable of holding anything a secret when it comes to pleasure. His body betrayed him, and Bill felt it all. The way that Tom’s grip tightened on Bill’s shoulders as his hips slowed, the twitch of his dick inside his boxers, the way he closed his eyes, and bit his lips – it was all sending up signals saying that he was reaching that peak of climax, and there was nothing Bill could do but drive him on towards it.

Maybe it’s just Bill being ridiculous, but he loves knowing he was the cause of that pleasure, the reason that Tom came.

Bill’s not far behind, sneaking one hand down the front of his jeans to finish himself off because grinding on someone’s who’s already finished can be a shitty move. Everything down below tends to become over sensitive and tender to the touch after a climax.

He wallows in the pleasure. It’s an orgasm, and orgasms are pleasure, which means they’re to be revelled in, not denied and forgotten about. Bill loves the rush, the burn, the feeling of being out of control for that one tiny second before coming back to himself with a shudder and a sigh.

When he opens his eyes again, he sees a welcome sight.

Tom’s still boneless and panting, staring at Bill with wide eyes, one hand pulling up his own t-shirt. Bill trails his eyes downwards, following the dark line of hair from Tom’s belly button – oh.

Oh, that is interesting.

Tom’s other hand – far from being down his own jeans, revelling in the hot and sticky mess that’s sure to be there – is holding onto the button of Bill’s half opened jeans, almost as if…

“Wanted to touch?” Bill asks, and if there’s a smile on his face it’s not meant to be mocking at all.

Tom snatches his hand back as though Bill’s on fire. “Wh – NO!” The way he’s instantly blushing, refusing to look at Bill, tells him that it was a correct deduction. If Bill hadn’t been aware, Tom would have pushed the material down a little more, maybe even touched some of skin that would have been revealed.

Like Bill said, Tom needs to _touch_ everything to understand it. Bill’s body and his dick are no exceptions to that rule.

“Aww, cute.” Allowing himself to collapse, Bill rests heavily on Tom’s chest. “I promise, I wouldn’t have minded, Tom.”

“Shut up and get off me.” Tom is back to flaming red again, squirming like the little fucker he is, and Bill sighs into his neck. “Seriously. Wanna shower.”

“You suck at afterglow, Tom.” Licking a contemplative stripe up Tom’s naked neck, he sighs again.

“What’s afterglow?”

“The awesome period of time after orgasm where you bask in the light of what you’ve done and snuggle and be close and whisper sweet nothings to each other.” Bill mumbles into Tom’s neck, throwing in a kiss or two just because he can.

Tom’s just so…touch _able_ as well as touchy feely himself.

“Why?”

“Because.” God, this kid. So many questions. “Shut up and enjoy the moment, Tom.”

“Hmph.” But Tom is good, and Bill feels a hand across the back of his neck, stroking his tattoo again. Tom gets it, even if he pretends he doesn’t.

The storm overhead rages on, and orange light starts to seep through the curtains, the streets outside filling with late night revellers on their way to the local bars and clubs. Bill lives in a nice area, and then some – it’s fucking _Knightsbridge_ , and it doesn’t get much nicer than that – but it still has partiers and party places.

They lay there on the sofa in the dark, hot, sweaty, sticky and covered in their own come, but it feels _awesome_. Bill revels in the feeling, knowing that it’s something to be appreciated. His partner, on the other hand, appreciates it less. Much less. Fifteen minutes into snuggling, and Tom’s squirmy again.

“Alright, alright…”

“I need to shower – oh, God, this is gross…” Tom is also ridiculously finicky about being _clean_ , and Bill resolves to teach him the value of a post sex wallow in how filthy one can feel, but apparently, today is not that day.

“You love that shower more than me.”

“I do.” Tom shrugs. “‘s got two heads.” Bill notices he doesn’t deny the fact that he loves it more than Bill himself, the owner of the flat, and therefore the shower.

“So do I.” Bill points to his dick for emphasis, just because Tom tends to be a _little bit_ slow on the uptake, and waits for the joke to hit home.

“Oh, _fuck off!_ ”

Bill loses it, and two seconds later so does Tom, the crappy joke sending them both into spasms of giggles not seen outside of helium parties. “Oh, my _God_ , that was bad.”

“Very.” But Tom is agreeable for a minute despite the lure of the shower , happy to be squished up against Bill on the sofa, sweaty and hot though it is.

It’s a better end to the day than Bill could have expected, that’s for sure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

“But…what if I’m really shit at it?”

Bill would absolutely laugh – he’s already grinning like a loon – but he kind of understands where Tom’s coming from. He’s been there, too – seven years ago, for sure, but yeah. He’s been there – being the virgin, being shy and nervous, and without a _fucking clue_. It’s up to him to reassure Tom that it’s not the end of the world, even though it might feel like it.

“You’ve never done it before, right?” He decides to be a little bit more gentle than smacking Tom upside the head, and telling him to shut up and listen. “So, you’re not going to be perfect. And that’s okay.”

“ _But it’s not!_ ”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. This is why porn is such a terrible idea. It’s nice to look at, but it gives such horrifically _unrealistic_ ideas about what sex is and is not. And Bill has porn. He has a few DVDs and magazines, and even a few books and guides because life always needs changing up, and sometimes, he needs some inspiration or just a bit of relief when he’s between partners and his own brain is out of ideas . He just knows the difference between on camera and off camera. But it seems like Tom hasn’t learnt that lesson yet.

Hence the bizarre route this sex talk has gone down.

They’ve been talking for about fifteen minutes now, but really that’s a misnomer. It’s been mostly ‘talking’ with Bill saying words and Tom shoving a pillow over his face to pretend he’s not listening or not in the room because of the word _penis_.

Bill would roll his eyes, but …Well, he’s basically been doing that for the last fourteen minutes straight, and it’s kind of boring. And it’s giving him a headache. Seriously.

They’re having ‘the talk’. The sex talk. The big scary one with negotiation and articulating needs and wants because Bill’s a big believer in doing things _right_. And you know. Being able to figure shit out before getting in the sack. That’s not the time to be having long, embarrassing conversations about technicalities and deep introspective discussions. That’s the time to be having sex and enjoying things and being all, _mmmm, I like that_ , and _more, yes_ , and everything else. Bill is very vocal in the sack.

“Look at me.”

“No.” Tom’s currently trying to suffocate himself with the biggest, fluffiest pillow this side of Knightsbridge, pretending that if he can’t see Bill, this conversation cannot be happening. It is.

“Yes.”

“Never going to look at you again.”

“Tom.”

“No.”

Sometimes, Tom is a mature, wonderful person who reminds Bill of someone much, much older than his eighteen years – the talent for drawing, the eye for colour and flow, the love of music, the dedication and the tenacity of someone who’s born to the arts despite all the shit that life has heaped upon them, all of that is stuff that appeals to Bill’s deep inner muse and sense of aesthetic.

And sometimes, like now, he resembles nothing so much as a pouty two year old, and Bill’s done with this shit.

“Give me the pillow.”

“Fuck off.”

It’s rather unfortunate for Tom that Bill’s got at _least_ a stone, six years, five and a half inches in height _and_ twice as much determination on Tom, and they both know it. Tom hasn’t got a hope in hell of winning. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t try, though. That’s Tom through and through. Nobody tells him he’s going to lose. He won’t ever let someone do that to him. He has to fight to the cold, bitter end, and _win_ too. Or at least give it his very best shot.

Not today, he won’t be.

Winning against Bill in a physical fight just isn’t happening. Two fingers down the side of his neck to make Tom go weak and shuddery (how Bill _loves_ Tom’s sensitivity to touch, even if Tom himself despises it) , one knee resting on Tom’s excessively baggy jeans so he can’t escape, and Bill uses his greater upper body strength to yank at the object of their struggles. Tom hangs on with grim determination, but once Bill applies a kiss to the side of his neck, just below the three freckles forming a constellation like Orion’s belt that is so _kissable_ , he’s lost the fight. He loses the pillow quick time, Bill throwing it over his shoulder so it lands somewhere near the bedroom door. That probably wasn’t what Georg had in mind when he said that lifting weights would help Bill win arguments, but whatever. It works.

“There we go.” Bill likes the fact he can see Tom’s face again, even if it is red, and Tom looks incredibly (and rather adorably) pouty. And ridiculous.

“I’m leaving.”

No, he’s not.

Four minutes of rough and tumble on Bill’s huge double, and Tom gets no closer to the door, and Bill does get closer to Tom. “No.” Straddling Tom, Bill raises an eyebrow, catching the hand Tom uses to try to shove him off. “Stop it, and let’s talk about this.”

“…Oh, _God!_ ” If it was possible for someone to turn even redder than a fire engine, Tom’s managed it. It’s not an attractive colour.

“Seriously, stop it, Tom.” Bill sighs. “We’re just talking about sex.”

“It’s **sex** , and I don’t talk about it.”

The problem is Tom _does_ talk about it - a lot. He gives it plenty of lip service, and Bill’s heard it. When he’s on the xbox live, when he’s talking to his friends… that kind of crap that most teenagers give it, saying how many girls’ they’ve slept with, how much sex they get in one day, how magnificent their dicks are.

Bill’s worked with getting Tom to tone it down because, frankly, it’s pretty gross. Both to women and to Bill because it’s _lying_ about their relationship. It’s being false, and if there’s one thing that Bill loathes with a passion, it’s _lying_. Once they were comfortable in their relationship, past the first few weeks of rose tinted romance, he started peeling back the layers on _why_ Tom felt the need to behave like that. It was, and still is, a long process though. They’ve reached a place where Tom doesn’t need to do it anymore in front of Bill or Bill’s friends because he’s more confident in himself, and doesn’t feel the need to front anymore. They’re still working through the whole “big myself up” in front of his own friends thing that Tom’s got going though.

And Bill still hasn’t forgotten about it.

“You don’t _do_ it, and that’s _why_ we need to talk about it.” Bill counters that shitty argument, and Tom huffs up at him. “Stop pouting and talk to me.”

It’s true.

Tom is a virgin. To both gay and hetero sex. Even though he’s all about swagger and giving it large, Tom’s never actually done more than make out with a girl or a guy. Bill’s his first serious relationship of any kind. He’s eighteen, and it’s not a weird thing or a bad thing in Bill’s eyes to still be a virgin then, because it’s a big step for everybody, and eighteen is _young_. Bill’s twenty four – he can say shit like that. But it does mean that they have to work _together_ , rather than just trusting that they both know what they’re doing.

Because you know. Sex is about responses and urges, but it requires a little bit more finesse than a bit of spit and a prayer.

Personal experience has taught Bill that.

Bill is not a virgin. He’s not promiscuous by any means, but he’s twenty four and had several serious boyfriends, two girlfriends, and enough short term relationships to be able to firmly place himself in the _experienced_ section of the population when it comes to sex.

“Fine.” Tom’s still bright red, but he’s not trying to shove Bill off of him anymore, and that’s progress. Of a sort.

It’s still too soon to start talking again apparently, going by the look on Tom’s face. He’s frowning, drawing his eyebrows together in a hard line and refusing to look at Bill. Those are not signs that he’s open and ready to talk, to open up and discuss what he feels about things.

Bill needs to keep Tom calm and willing to talk – to communicate- rather than rolling around on the bed, pillow over his face, and pretending to be invisible. Cute though it may be, it’s really not productive.

Instead, he begins with _touch_ rather than words.

Tom is an absolute touch love addict, loving massages and caresses as much as he loves kisses, and Bill takes full advantage of that normally, just because he likes to be touchy feely, and there’s nothing deeper in it.

But now, he’s using it for his own ends.

He starts with Tom’s hands.

He likes Tom’s hands a lot. They’re artist hands, with long fingers, wide palms, clean lines and strong bones. Even the calluses, from hours of drawing and painting, and the guitar playing too, are interesting to think about, to study and wonder where they came from. His hands are sensitive, too; Bill brushes his thumb down the centre of Tom’s palm just to prove it, and those long fingers fold in, a flower closing up in slow motion. And they’re soft and ridiculously pretty for a guy. Hands can be pretty in Bill’s book – he did an entire project on hands in his first year, studying jewellery and tattooing in different cultures and eras – and Tom’s hands are pretty.

He’s pretty all over, even if he won’t admit it.

Pretty, pouty lips, pretty _latte_ coloured nipples, because Tom couldn’t just go for coffee coloured tits, they had to be latte coloured, pretty tri colour dreadlocks, even though they’re all natural and homedone, long pretty lashes that femme Bill would have died for, everything about Tom adds up to _sweet_ , rather than anything else. Behind the baggy clothes and the hard attitude that falls down now with ever increasing regularity, Tom is just _plain pretty_.

But Bill doesn’t focus too much on that now; he’s calming Tom down, not using him as a project base.

Again. The whole reason they found each other was because Tom wanted to _be_ Bill’s project base. It’s been a long, and very interesting story, honestly, but Bill can’t be thinking about that now. There’s so many memories there, so much to think about that he’d be there all day, but he loves it so much to tell and to think about. It’s like a fucking romance film or something, and that’s Bill’s favourite genre.

Instead, he remains in the present day, planting himself firmly in the bed, in the middle of Knightsbridge in London, rather than anywhere else.

He focuses on spreading Tom’s palm, rubbing away the tension between the bones, moving up to the fingers to bend and flex them, massaging the joints to relieve any stress there.

Bill would love to introduce Tom to the wonders of massage – the different oils, the magic of hot stones, the way that the body can be completely relaxed and rejuvenated from just an hour of touching and rest. Bill’s not a master at it; it takes years and years of training to become a massage therapist, and Bill has all the respect in the world for the people in that profession because they can completely dismantle a person physically and emotionally with just their hands. But he’s good enough to get by, to use it in the bedroom, or just day to day in a relationship. It doesn’t have to be sexy although, it can most certainly be sexy, and it’s awesome when it is. It can also be soothing and restful, which is more of what Bill has in mind for Tom.

Tom’s ADHD means he doesn’t relax a lot. He’s always on the go, always moving, always twitchy because that’s the nature of the condition. It makes him a very interesting person to keep up with, but it can be difficult, and he knows that Tom finds it frustrating at times.

Having a limited attention span makes it hard for Tom to focus on things like his coursework for college, or his assessment that his social worker has him fill out. And Bill knows that sometimes, it’s just plain all out tiring, being constantly _go go go go go_ from dawn till dusk and beyond. He’d like to see if a massage would change that for Tom, even for a short while.

But that’s a discussion for another day.

For now, Bill focuses on Tom’s hands, working them to see if he can make the rest of Tom relax into the soft mattress, stop holding tense and difficult. Through it all, he watches Tom’s expressions, wanting to know how he’s feeling.

By the end of the massage, when Tom’s fingers have no more tension left in them, and his palms are loose and pliable, his expression is less angry and embarrassed, and more contemplative.

It’s a start in the right direction.

“Can we talk now?” Bill asks, gently.

“Mmm.”

“Thank you.” And Bill is thankful. He knows it’s a difficult subject for Tom, hard for him to discuss because, you know, it’s _sex_ as Tom puts it. But it’s important for them both that they come to some kind of agreement and have this necessary discussion. Sex is a big step in any relationship, and Bill knows that how someone’s first time goes can be very important to some people. It can make or break a relationship, in his experience. It’s not going to be perfect – perfection only exists in porn movies and fairy tales – but a good time is important to be had by all.

“Why do we have to talk?” Tom shifts uncomfortably, but he leaves his hands in Bill’s. Evidently, he still wants touches, and Bill obliges him by threading their fingers together. Tom likes to be in contact with Bill, likes to be touching him, and Bill knows that for now, that’s something easy that he can give Tom. A little touch love never hurt anybody.

“Because if we want to have sex, then we have to talk about the important things.”

“Like?”

“Condoms. Safe sex. What’s okay and what’s not.” Bill shrugs. “Things that create boundaries and why they’re there.”

“Oh.” Looking a little calmer, Tom nods.

“We don’t have to break everything down completely, and make it all science-y and technical, but it’s good to have some rules laid out. And expectations clarified.”

“Expectations?”

“Like, how much is it going to hurt?” Bill’s done anal, both giving and receiving, and, in all honesty, he’s done it a lot. And he likes it. A lot. But there’s always a little bit of pain involved for him when he’s bottoming at the start, just enough to take him over the line between _good pain_ and _bad pain_. But for him, that’s part of the process, and that’s okay. He expects it and knows that it’s coming and how to cope with it – deep breathing and waiting for the moment to pass. But anything more than that. It’s not okay. “Like, how big I am and what lube I’m going to use, and what you should be able to feel.”

“Oh.” Tom’s expression has gone from squeamish when Bill started talking about anal to understanding when he mentioned pain, and Bill hopes he’s getting through. “So… you just…”

“Breathe deep and tell my partner to move, because that usually makes it feel better.” Bill shrugs. “I’ve done this before, and I know what feels good for me. You haven’t, and that’s okay. But we can talk about what we can try if it does hurt and just…experiment. There’s no rules when it comes to things like this; it’s all about what works for us.”

“But…” Tom bites his lip. “Never mind.”

“We can talk about what feels good, too – what we like and what makes us feel really fucking awesome.” Bill is trying to encourage Tom to open up, too. It’s not all for Bill to disclose everything.

He knows that Tom isn’t experienced – at all – but there are still things Tom likes outside of sex that Bill can use with him. He likes being talked to during kissing. He likes having his hands touched. He likes Bill’s jewellery and exploring with his own fingers. Tom also likes being held tight. Distance is something he doesn’t seem to enjoy during kissing or touching or rutting. When he’s getting up close and personal with Bill’s bits, he seems to like to get up close and personal with all of Bill, pulling him closer, resting his chin on Bill’s shoulder, hugging him tight, so there’s no space between them at all.

It’s both endearing and _really damn hot_.

Having someone want _Bill_ like that, want him so close, so near like he’s going to disappear any second or take away the pleasure because Tom gets desperate and needy when he’s in the middle of sexual pleasure, is a massive ego boost for Bill. It’s also hot because Bill has never been absolutely needed like that before, and it’s sexy. It appeals to Bill’s deep seated need for control and for emotional closeness.

He doesn’t know what Tom will be like during sex, but Bill is rather banking on him being much of the same. He can’t _wait_ to find out.

Bill likes kisses during sex. He likes talking to his partner and having them respond. He likes to call someone baby and babe and love and every other term of endearment. He likes to touch all over and for sex to be about feeling good rather than strictly by the book. He likes chains and cuffs sometimes, too, and blindfolds are always awesome. He’s not adverse to toys, and that extends even as far as pegging, because hey, life is fun when you turn it (and gender roles and norms) on it’s head.

“You let her…”

“Yeah.” Bill laughs at Tom’s look of incredulity. “It was a very interesting experience.” Oh, God, was it. Being pegged was something Bill had _always_ wanted to try, but it took him a long time to find someone willing to bring it into the bedroom. It was absolutely worth the wait, though. Bill still has the pictures from that night, and it was _amazing_. “Sex is not just about ‘real’ penises and holes, Tom.”

If it were possible, Tom would flame redder. He’s practically on fire, and he can’t even look at Bill. “Oh.” It’s positively adorable, but Bill really needs Tom to stop hiding and start talking.

“That’s my experience, Tom, and it’s not going to be the same for you.”

“I don’t _have_ any experience.” Tom mutters.

“For now.” Bill pets the little hollow at the base of Tom’s throat as he concedes that point, knowing that both his neck and lack of experience are sensitive spots for him, and Tom gives him a _look_. Then again, he does relax. “But we can talk about how you want it to go, and what you want from me, so we make sure it’s right for you. And the same for me, of course.”

“Mm.”

“Look at me, Tom.” Bill orders, and Tom grudgingly, after at least ten seconds of deliberate slowness, does so. “Thank you.”

“Welcome.” Oh, that’s all tart sarcasm and annoyance in there.

“It’s not all embarrassing shit, Tom.” Bill raises an eyebrow, and Tom rolls his eyes. Apparently, he disagrees with that assessment of the current situation.

“Yes, Bill.”

“Maturity, Tom, is sexy.” Bill pokes him hard in the chest. “Very.”

“Not subtle.”

“Neither are you.”

“Yes, Bill.” But that’s sincere, at last, and Bill gives Tom the benefit of the doubt again. “So we have…. To…. I dunno, talk? About shit?”

“So, we have to talk _about sex_. And communicate about _sex_. And discuss things about _sex_.”

“I see.”

“So, come on.” Bill leans down, kisses Tom on the cheek. “Talk to me.”

Tom rolls his eyes, still looking uncomfortable. He obviously would rather be anywhere else than flat on his back on Bill’s bed, straddled by the owner of said bed. But credit where it’s due, he nods. “Well… I like…”

It’s a start.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

“Lubed?” Bill holds up a box of condoms, wondering about Tom’s preference. “Ribbed? Extra thin?”

Bill’s an extra thin man when he’s with a lady just because he would go bareback, but that’s kind of risky, and it’s the next best thing to get a sheer condom. But with a guy, he tends to prefer lubed. Just because.

But it’s what Tom wants that’s important.

Tom doesn’t seem to have a preference, even though Bill’s trying to encourage him to decide. Apart from preferring to be as far away from the condom aisle in the local _Boots_ store as possible, and that’s not a _real_ preference, thanks. If Tom shuffles anymore to the left, he’ll be actually in an end zone rack of sanitary products, inviting people to _try out the new silky feeling_. Somehow, Bill suspects that’s probably not what Tom would like to experience around his dick.

“Oh my _God_.” He’s once again bright red, trying to hide behind the racks of shelving as though he could disappear through sheer willpower and imagination alone. Fat chance. Tom’s five ten, the display is at best four foot nine. If he’s going to disappear behind it, it’s going to make for very interesting CCTV footage of a hooligan crawling around on the floor. “Why can’t we do this online again?”

“Because it’s buying condoms, not a bomb.” Bill reaches out, hauls Tom a little closer again. He’s all for personal space, but nobody needs all of three feet and growing. Especially not Tom when Bill’s around. “And to be honest, I like to buy them myself.” Bill’s ordered them online before but there’s something intensely impersonal about the whole process – ordering sixty, collecting them from the post office, opening them up like another CD player or a box of DVDs. Call Bill weird or whatever, but that’s _boring_. He likes to buy them in person, walking up the street afterwards knowing he’s got them in his bag, that he’s going home or out on the town and intending to use them.

And he almost always does. Bill doesn’t go out often with the intention of coming back with a bedmate, but when he does, he will. 

Maybe it’s an exhibitionist thing.

Hmm.

But whatever. It’s important to him that Tom’s okay with the choice that Bill makes for himself, since, you know, Tom will be experiencing the condom from the other side, and all that. Last night, during the ‘sex talk’ that was less sexy and more talk than Tom would have guessed, they discussed buying condoms for the both of them. Bill’s aware that he’s going to top the first time, because that’s what they decided on, and Tom needs to know what Bill’ll be using. But maybe plans will change, and it’s always nice to be prepared for sudden alterations to the set list, as it were.

“Go away, Bill.”

Time for some reassurance again, apparently.

“Come here, Tom.” Tom’s pulled his hood right up, the dark material hiding him away behind a façade that Bill hasn’t seem for a long time. He’s reverting right back to the little baby thug that Bill saw for the first time in the store, just before Tom revealed the wanted ad that Bill had put up, asking if the position was still available.

It was.

And so was Bill, it seemed.

Long story, and Bill would muse on it more because it’s pretty damn romantic, actually, but he needs to focus on _Tom now_ , not Tom then.

“Why?”

“Because you’re making this into a bigger deal than it needs to be, okay?”

“Shut up.” But Tom’s got his hands pulled up inside his sleeves, hiding every inch of exposed skin away from prying, dangerous eyes, which tells Bill that he’s feeling nervous and defensive, not open. It’s definitely not what they need at the moment. Bill reels Tom in, his hoodie providing a handy place to hold onto. It’s big enough for the job, that’s for sure.

“Don’t tell me to shut up.” Forehead to forehead, even though Tom’s hood is up, and he’s flaming red, Bill makes his point known. “Speak to me. If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to. We can go if you can’t handle it in here because it’s fine to say _we’ll do this some other time_. But let’s _talk_ about it, okay?” Bill pulls Tom’s hood down, patting his dreads, leaning in even closer to Tom to whisper to him. “It’s nothing to be afraid of. They’re just bits of latex.”

Tom scoffs, predictably, but after a second or two, Bill hears the reason why he’s so…defensive, really. “But it’s _sex_.”

“And we’re going to have sex.” It’s a damn good job it’s about an hour before store closes, in Bill’s opinion. They’re virtually alone in the store – an old lady shopping up in the make up session and Christmas music blasting overhead – so nobody can hear their discussion.

“Maybe. We’re just buying condoms and lube. If we want to have sex, we have the stuff, and if we don’t, then it’s just going to sit in the drawer. No harm, no foul.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” From personal experience, that’s where Bill’s speaking at the moment. “No pressure. We’ll just let it happen.”

“Why are you so….” Tom waves his hand. “Zen?”

“Because I like sex, and I’m not ashamed of that.” Bill pats Tom’s dreads again. It’s rare as fuck when he can drag Tom out of the house without one, if not two, hats, but today he managed it. Good thing, too. Tom immediately leans into the touch. “Nobody’s going to look twice.”

“Seriously?” Tom’s not being snarky – Bill can feel the fingers Tom’s wound into his belt loops, pulling him closer, and he knows that Tom is actually worried about this kind of thing. He’s big on appearance, needing to be reassured that nobody’s going to doubt him or think weirdly of him. A lack of self confidence will do that for you.

“Nobody gives two shits about what we’re doing or buying. As soon as we walk out of here, they’re going to forget about us.”

“Oh.”

“Hundreds of people buy this stuff everyday, Tom. If they wondered about everybody, they’d never get anything else done.”

“Oh.”

“They don’t care about us – we’re just two guys buying make up, and drinks, and deodorant and some lube and condoms and a box of plasters.” Bill indicates their basket, holding the random assortment of stuff that they both need. Although he would have been fine buying just the condoms, sometimes it’s easier to mix it in with other stuff. “So you can stop worrying, Tom. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Yes, Bill.” After a second of reluctance, Tom backs up a step or two, dropping his left hand from Bill’s belt loops so there’s some distance between them.

His right, though, is still firmly holding onto the double loop, and Bill grins. It’s endearing the way that Tom will turn himself inside out to appear tough and all the rest of it, and that alone would be shitty, but when it comes down to it, he _likes_ being close and holding onto Bill. He _likes_ being all touchy feely. And that’s adorable.

Bill is exactly the same, but he doesn’t hide it.

“Now. Lubed?” Bill holds up the boxes again. “Or ribbed?”

“That one.” Tom is still red, but he points to the orange box in Bill’s hand.

“Lubed it is.” Bill nods. “Good choice.”

“How do you know what size to get?”

Bill raises his eyebrow. Okay, that was a good question – much more than Bill expected. “Unless you’re hiding a tiddler or a mammoth elephant dick under there,” he looks down at Tom’s baggy jeans that are so big that quite feasibly _he could_ be hiding a massive one, “You’ll fit the standard size, like me.”

“But…”

“Trust me, I’ve felt it. It’ll fit.” It’s unlikely that it won’t to be honest. After the first time of rutting on the couch, Bill’s made a point to do it a few more times, and Tom’s not objected. Getting up close and personal with Tom’s dick with his hand was a very nice twenty fifth birthday present (on the 11th), in Bill’s opinion, but it also let him…ahem, _size_ Tom up. Nice, a good size, and plenty pretty just like Tom himself, but standard condom girth and length. Nothing excessive in either direction. Bill throws into their basket a box of bright blue lubed condoms for himself, and a box of plain ones for Tom, and after a moment of consideration, chucks in a novelty box of glow in the dark condoms as well.

“Why _coloured_?”

Bill would laugh at how scandalized Tom sounds – as though condoms should never come in anything other than clear – but he knows that Tom’s still feeling a bit sensitive over his last confidence meltdown. “Because in the heat of the moment, I find colour condoms easier to put on.” It’s true. Bright blue is not a colour one expects to find around their dick – barring one _incredibly_ dedicated time that Bill went as an Avatar character to a costume party – and so it makes it easier to unroll and shit. 

“Oh.” Tom is saying that _a lot_ today. “And the glow in the dark ones?”

“Annual waterballoon fight for New Years – the Fashion department society organises it. It’s in the dark on Wimbledon Common.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“You can come if you want,” Bill offers.

“Sounds awesome.” Tom looks a bit cheered up, though, at the thought of running around in the dark, trying to get other people as drenched as possible. As Bill thought he would. There’s always tea, and a barbeque, and a bonfire – so much better than hitting the clubs for New Year’s, in his experience. More fun, less expensive. .

Bill grins, reaching down for a couple of tubes of plain lube. There’s plenty of time later for strawberry flavoured gel and glitter lube, but after the condom issue, maybe plain is a better idea.

There’s nothing quite so off putting as suddenly getting a waft of strawberry right in the middle of sex when you weren’t expecting it. Fingers in arse, lots of sweat and moans and everything being _fan-fucking-tastic_ , and then _strawberries_. Bill collapsed into giggles when he experienced it for the first time. Apparently, it was all his partner had on hand, but, _man_ , it was hysterical when he didn’t know it was coming.

“Let’s go.” Bill’s done with his shopping, and Tom’s still ready to skitter for the exit.

“Oh, thank Christ.” The second they move away from the _personal_ aisle, Tom heaves a sigh of relief so loud that Bill is surprised that the little old lady still looking at lipsticks doesn’t hear it.

“Now. Let’s go pay.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

It’s been a week and four days since Bill took Tom condom shopping.

And everything’s different around the place.

Christmas has come home to roost in Bill’s apartment, tinsel festooning the walls, the fireplace covered with the winter garland, two advent calendars (one Avengers, one Barbie - Tom lost the coin toss) propped up side by side on the kitchen counter. On the fridge, a Christmas cake sits moist and rich after three weeks of being drenched in rum to make it even more awesome. It’s waiting to be dumped in marzipan and slathered in icing and decorations – that’s Bill’s task to do the day before Christmas Eve. In case he fails, he’s still got time to go and buy a premade one.

He won’t tell his mother, though, if he does.

In the living room, the Christmas tree takes pride of place in the bay window, tastefully decorated in gold and red decorations.

They put it up together, with surprisingly little swearing and few problems. That might be because even though it’s a six foot tree, it’s all fake plastic and in sections, and it’s kind of hard to fuck up something so simple. Literally, it was just stacking each section one on top of another.

Decorating it was another matter – and Tom did win that coin toss. Bill wanted to colour it in black and pink, because he’s always wanted a pinky punk tree, but Tom overruled his exceptionally cool and up to the moment advice, saying, “It’s Christmas, not a fashion show, and there will be no pink on that Christmas tree. Ever.” Bill pouted, but Tom kissed him and told him to shut up.

Cheeky beggar.

Instead of Bill’s ultra cool scheme, Tom took charge of the decorating. They went traditional, and Bill’s mother was only too happy to donate her car and plenty of family ornaments to the cause.

She sent them home with boxes and boxes of tinsel and baubles and even a choice of four – _four_ – tree toppers. Bill didn’t even _know_ they had four different toppers, and, apparently, they’d been in the family for years. Colour him surprised. They picked the star in the end. It was shiny, and Bill’s sixty two percent magpie anyway.

It’s now December twenty second, the tree is already collecting presents in pretty gold paper (Tom’s) and pink paper (Bill’s), and it’s looking very quaint and homey. It reminds Bill of Nana’s tree back in Germany. She already sent him pictures – on Instagram, no less – and they’re planning on skyping on Christmas day, but… Yeah. It’s not the same. But Bill’s father, the ever busy RAF Group Captain Kaulitz-Wenz, has been deployed and won’t be home until Christmas Eve at the earliest. Maybe not even New Year’s. And Bill’s mother wants to be there to welcome him home, since she got back from her own deployment on December 1st. Gibraltar is not as far from London as the Falklands, but yeah.

Fuck the Falklands, sometimes. Fuck being posted overseas. Bill would like to be close to his family sometimes, geographically as well as emotionally, because that’s what families are supposed to be. Close.

But even though Bill won’t be spending the run up to Christmas with both of his parents, he will be spending it with someone else.

Tom’s staying with Bill for Christmas.

Bill knew it was always going to work out that way. Tom’s foster family is happy for him to do that, and so’s his social worker. His foster mother said that as long as he checked in twice a day while he was with Bill, there was no issue there. Part of Tom and his foster family’s behavioural contract is that Tom doesn’t disappear off the face of the earth without telling someone he’s okay. Again. And Tom’s social worker thinks that Bill is a good influence on Tom.

Bill doesn’t know about that because even though Tom’s been going to college regularly and doing his homework and being a good student – as opposed to his old self – he’s also being corrupted in terms of sex and kissing and making out. Bill is more than happy to help Tom in that regard. But, anyway, he’s happy to have Tom with him.

Life’s been quite domestic this Christmas with someone else living with him pretty much on and off for weeks at a time. Bill’s been shopping for food with Tom. The amount of crappy jokes about the choice of meat for the Christmas dinner was hysterical. So was trying to get it all home on the Tube, because the world and his wife had the same idea to go shopping and come home with the entire Christmas food supply – enough to feed an entire platoon of squaddies – via the Underground. And they went shopping at the flea market for presents, and they went to Harrods and Hamley’s, just to see the epic Christmas displays.

They even went ice skating together. Well, they tried. Bill did his best impression of a gazelle on ice while being pursued by a lion, and Tom, the ratbag, skated rings around him. How was he supposed to know that Tom _liked_ the ice? How was Bill supposed to know that Tom enjoyed strapping blades to his feet and gliding over the ice like it was air, while Bill clung to the railing and tried to remember which way was up. Ice is terrible. Horrible. Absolutely god awful. It’s a fucking trap, as far as Bill is concerned. Best viewed at a distance.

Behind glass.

While clutching a large mug of tea.

And several shopping bags.

But, yeah. They visited the Farmer’s market, too, with Bill’s mother, and being good boys, they agreed to schlepping her grocery shopping home again for her, just because she promised them tea and biscuits. They also went to the theatre with Georg and Gustav, because the annual AmDram (Amateur Dramatics) showing of a classic fairy tale panto was nothing to be missed.

Georg nearly pissed himself laughing at Cinderella, but Bill wasn’t far behind.

And then they had even more fun trying to wrap the presents that they’d brought from their various excursions to the city center. Tom’s were all neat and tidy, every corner folded to razor sharp points and the ribbons curled just so. It was endearing watching him do it with such precision, as though his life depended upon being able to make the perfect curl or the right length of tape.

Bill’s look suitably amazing wrapped in _merry Christmas fucker_ pink paper because he wanted something original. They also looked incredibly scruffy. No one would never guess that Bill’s a designer and talented tailor if they saw his Christmas presents. They look like they’ve been run over a time or six by a black cab. It’s the thought that counts.

But all in all, with everything considered, it’s been awesome. This is probably Bill’s best Christmas. Ever.

Tom’s never done a lot of that before. Years of moving around in foster families, children’s homes, and secure accommodation has made Christmas a pretty sore, staid affair for him, fraught with tension and drama or horrible flat and uninspiring depending on where he was. Bill has waited for Tom to open up to him about his past, and Tom doesn’t often take the opportunity. Bill’s picked up on a lot of things that Tom _doesn’t_ say, more than anything, understanding that sometimes, silence or _you know_ and _yeah, well_ says a lot more than the sheer weight of words that Tom can produce at times. So this year, Bill’s kind of… thrown himself, for want of a better word, into making sure that Tom gets the full Christmas Kaulitz experience, and so far, it’s gone pretty well.

Everything on Bill’s wishlist of things to do with Tom – romantic walk in the winter park at sunrise, market shopping, even ice skating (even though that was a disaster for Bill) – has been ticked off. And that’s not a joke. Bill does have a list of things of things he wanted to do with Tom. A post modern take on a letter to Father Christmas, Bill told Tom cheerfully. Tom, predictably scoffed, but turned pink at _how many_ of the things involved him. And then he gave Bill kisses, so all was pretty awesome after that.

The last thing that Bill _definitely_ wants to do is take Tom into the city on Christmas Eve. They’re going to Midnight Mass in Westminster Cathedral together with Bill’s mother, and it’s kind of important that they go, for Bill. They’ve brought candles and things specially for it.

It’s traditional for Bill’s family, and… even though they’re not religious, it feels _warm_. It feels _welcoming_. Bill’s had a lot of time to think about it both as an agnostic and as a bisexual man who has slept with men, and earned the ire of the Catholic church, amongst other people.But Bill knows he’s always at home in his particular community there, with all the people that he grew up with. He loves the tradition, and he knows he’s welcome there. He always lights a candle for Grandpa Kaulitz, who died when he was small, and for his Dad. To make sure he comes home.

Growing up as part of a family who’s divided by war and peace keeping operations – Afghanistan, Iraq, the Falklands, Cyprus, Kenya – his dad’s served everywhere, and Bill’s spent a lot of Christmas separated from him by orders from people way above his Dad’s paygrade and emergencies from people who don’t care about Christmas. Bill’s been dragged here and there after his father and his mother. Even spending his formative years growing up in Germany, as a RAF brat was interesting, but now that he’s settled in London with his mother ten miles away, it’s pretty important that his dad comes home, too. Bill will light his candle, as he has done every year since he was a child, to ask for whoever’s out there to bring both his parents back home safely.

Tom’s agreed to come, too, and Bill is pleased. His first midnight mass, and Bill is the one bringing him that new experience.

Christmas is all about new and old experiences and times.

It’s another first for Bill, too. Bill’s kind of pleased to be hosting his very first Christmas for his mother and his partner. It’s part of growing up. The very first time cooking a big dinner, the first Christmas with a partner, the first time that he wakes up on Christmas sharing a bed with someone he loves…

Oh, who’s he kidding? One of the _biggest_ things this Christmas will be about is the first sex.

It was always going to be about the sex, in the end. Bill’s always considered sex to be a physical declaration of love, completing a relationship’s bond, and Tom’s just plain horny and needy for Bill. And, you know, in love with him. That’s important, too. But he’s still needy for touches and kisses, and Bill _likes_ it but he wants more.

Everywhere.

But they haven’t done it yet. The condoms and lube that Bill paid for went straight into the bedside drawers and haven’t made it out again, yet.

Bill has plans, though.

He’s been waiting for a day that _feels_ right. He doesn’t have a specific criteria for it – it could be a Tuesday, it could be a Saturday, before Christmas or for New Year’s, whatever. It just _has_ to feel right – everything kind of aligning in the best possible way. Bill’s a big believer on going on gut instinct; he doesn’t want Tom to think of it as a performance or psych himself out before the big event, as it were. It’s supposed to just flow, and that will happen when the time is right on the right day.

And today’s that day.

He can feel it.

It’s the twenty second, three days before Christmas. The day before everything kicks into high gear with last minute shopping and cooking and the true Christmas pressure, so it’s the last day where they can relax and be lazy.

Tom’s taking full advantage of that.

They’ve spent the day watching terrible films from the BBC on the flatscreen, and Top Gear specials on DVD – Gustav should never leave his stuff at Bill’s place again – and eating the cookies that Bill made from Nana’s recipe that she emailed to them. Nana’s very up to date on the latest technology for a lady in her seventies.

It’s about four o’clock now, a perfect lull forming in the day before they have dinner – it’s been cooking all day in the crock pot, much to Tom’s disturbance. _How can you spend twelve hours cooking a chicken, Bill?!_ Because it makes said chicken taste awesome, Bill replied and then kissed away Tom’s further objections.

Snuggled up on the sofa, wearing Bill’s sweat pants, Tom looks ridiculously cosy and soft. Even his feet are hidden by the jogging bottoms because they’re long on Bill, and Tom is inches _shorter_ than him. As well as the blanket he’s got neatly tucked around himself, Tom’s also wearing his very own dressing gown, too. It’s the one Bill brought him for his birthday, way back in September – forest green and navy in warm towelling.

Getting dressed today would be just too much for them to deal with – Bill’s been slobbing around in a tank top and the black version of the jogging bottoms that Tom _stole_ from his drawers. No underwear either – underwear is a going outside thing.

And Bill has _absolutely no_ plans to go outside into the cold; it’s about minus two outside, and no thank you, Jack fucking Frost. Today is a curl up beside the fire kind of day, and that’s exactly what they’re doing.

Bill’s just finished putting the finishing touches to Tom’s hair – rewaxing the honey and brown dreadlocks with coconut dread wax, binding the roots, using a knitting needle and comb to bring the stray hairs into the main body of the hair. It’s a long job, split over two days because Tom’s not able to sit still for the entire three hours at a time that it takes to do the whole lot in one.

“How you feeling?” Bill stretches, discarding his mug of now cold tea onto the coffee table from where he’s lounging on the floor beside the sofa. After all those hours and hours of bending over Tom’s hair, he needed to stretch _out_. All six feet two inches of himself. Hey, the rug is _comfortable_ , okay? Another one of Nana’s heirlooms, sent from Germany to remind Bill of his Hinterland heritage.

“Bored.” Tom leans on the arm of the sofa, a smile just starting to appear in the corner of his mouth as he peers down at Bill.

“Oh?”

“Very.”

“Oh, dear.” Bill leans in close to Tom over the arm, kneeling on the floor so they can look at each other eye to eye. “Terrible thing to be bored, isn’t it?” Bill likes flirting, and he knows that Tom does too. Even if he won’t admit it.

“Horrible.” Tom manages about point four of a second of being straight faced and serious before he cracks. “Shut up, and gimme kisses.”

Bill loses it, dissolving into something that’s supposed to be giggles but sounds more like cackling. He will _never_ ever regret making Tom fall in love with the act of kissing, because he’s suddenly become the neediest, most demanding kiss _ee_ on the planet, and Bill _likes_ that. He loves being the one that Tom turns to for affection, for physical love and touches, because he likes being _needed_. Being wanted. It makes him feel good – makes him feel _loved_.

But today, Bill’s going to take it up a level or six – not just kissing but…more.

 _Sex_.

That’s the plan, at least, but Bill knows that a lot can happen between here and afterglow. It’ll take some manoeuvring to get Tom to said bed, but he’s confident he can do it. After that, though, what happens in the bedroom is in the hands of the Gods. So to speak.

Bill’s not entirely sure how they manage it, but they end up in the bedroom, having navigated the living room and the hall, even though they’re both otherwise occupied in the best possible way. They’re absorbed with kisses and wandering hands, and trying not to fall over shit like wrapping paper and the random assortment of winter boots that seem to accumulate there, no matter how many times Tom puts them in the hall cupboard. It was probably by pulling on the cord of Tom’s dressing gown while giving him the kisses he so desired because it’s a pretty handy way to keep him moving.

Bill totally didn’t double stitch the loops and add an extra one before he gave Tom the dressing gown in question just to make sure that it could withstand being used to shove Tom here and there.

Absolutely.

Not.

But at the end of the kissing session, when Tom’s panting, and his lips are _delightfully_ kiss swollen, and he’s pulling on Bill for more because, of course, he’s insatiable, they’re in the bedroom. And the door is closed, and the light turned on against the grey creeping in from outside.

Earlier, while Tom was in the shower after getting himself covered in icing sugar and flour from baking when Bill upended the flour bag on his head and Tom retaliated with the sugar, Bill replaced the normal bulb in the light over the bed with a reddy-pink one because he knows that light is good, but white light is actually pretty revealing when you’re naked and exposed to someone else before sex. And you know. It’s fucking romantic.

“Wh – what the hell, Bill?” Tom’s got one arm out of the dressing gown before he notices the light. He’s not exactly the most observant person on the planet, sometimes.

“Because.” Bill likes that word because he never needs to add anything else after it with Tom. He’s trusted to leave it there – the implicit message of _I have a reason, so trust me enough_ for Tom. “Come here, pretty boy.”

The dressing gown goes on the back of the door, next to Bill’s tatty robe from his Nana when he was eighteen, and on the way to the bed, Bill gets Tom to lose the jogging bottoms by just grabbing onto a handful around his backside and tugging. It’s hilarious how baggy they are. They hit the floor with a soft noise, but Bill doesn’t let Tom get caught in them, or take the time to fold them just so and lay them on the back of the vanity chair. Right now, forward momentum is more important than allowing Tom to get bogged down in details or in distractions.

Only when he has Tom on the bed, leaning against the mass of pillows that Bill insists upon, in just his t-shirt and a pair of boxers that _he stole (_ because Bill can recognise his own clothes when they reappear on someone else, thank you ever so), does he speak again.

“Breathe, Tom.”

“I’m okay.”

But the way that Tom’s shifting uncomfortably, kneading the duvet like a cat, biting his bottom lip, tells Bill that he’s not okay, not completely, at least. Tom has a lot of signs that tell Bill exactly what he is or isn’t feeling. He’s had eight months to get to know them, and Bill is a fast learner. Kneading, and fiddling with his clothes – or indeed, any handy material, whether he’s wearing it or Bill is – is a sure indication that Tom is not _distressed_ or unhappy, but he’s feeling nervous. Unsure. Needing reassurance.

Bill knows how to fix that. It’s always the same solution, and he knows it well.

 _Kisses_.

Tom’s always up for kisses even when he’s stressing out or whatever, and Bill knows it’s the best way to keep him calm now.

Kisses are quiet, soft, and completely absorbing for Tom. He goes the whole way – closed eyes, holding Bill close, using the kisses as a way to be near to Bill, to convey things that words can’t. Bill knows that kissing like this – to ground Tom again and bring him back to earth – is non-judgemental and emotionally close; when you kiss someone, there can be no secrets and no hiding things, because your partner feels it. Bill can sense how tense Tom is from the set of his lips, the way that even though he opens his mouth, his jaw is tight, and he’s not pliant like he normally is.

Five minutes of no talking but plenty of kisses fixes that, and then some.

Predictably, by the time Bill draws back, needing to breathe if nothing else, Tom’s gone from being coiled tight like a spring, this to close to scrambling off the bed and heading for the door, to being relaxed and soft _almost_ everywhere. He’s got his legs either side of Bill, happy to be almost straddling him in exchange for kisses and touches. That’s what Bill was aiming for – getting Tom to a place mentally where he doesn’t _think_ (or _overthink_ , as the case may be) but he just trusts Bill, letting him to do what he knows best. He knows that by this point, Tom absolutely would let Bill touch him, touch his dick and pull his boxers off to make it easy to access _everything_.

But Bill’s not trying to get him off, like he was last time they were in this position.

At this point during the last time Bill brought Tom into the bedroom like this, he had one hand down Tom’s excessively baggy jeans, preparing to introduce Tom to the miracles of lube plus someone else’s hand for masturbation because it was a Monday night, and they both needed relief from the shitty day that had preceded the moment in the bedroom.

This time, Bill is trying to keep Tom relaxed enough to bring out the lube and condoms from the bedside drawer.

They’ve discussed it, talked about what they both want from this event. Of course they have. Bill would never _ever_ allow himself to spring random sex on his partner for their first time. He’s all for a surprise dicking and everything, but not for the first time. That would be hard for anyone. Particularly someone like Tom. The reasoning for that is simple; he could never predict how Tom would react. He could laugh it off, he might run away, or he might get scared. Or he would agree with Bill but not because he _wanted_ sex. Because he would think it would be the _right_ or the _cool_ thing to do.

Tom is very easily led like that, Bill has learned during the course of their relationship, and even though they’re working on it, Bill has to be aware that sometimes Tom still falls into that trap.

They’ve discussed it though – what would make Tom feel better about the whole set up (less light, less set up, making it feel spontaneous, because otherwise the pressure would get to him, and more kissing than ever), how to say no if something doesn’t feel good without hurting someone else’s feelings ( _This isn’t working for me_ is a lot better than _fuck it, you’re terrible at sex_ , for example), and all the shit that Bill has always seen as mostly implicit but has to be made explicit for Tom.

He’s kind of precise about that kind of thing.

With one hand around the back of Bill’s neck, stroking the tattoo there, Tom’s back to being relaxed again. The fingers against Bill’s skin are gentle, the touches firm and sure.

It’s his compass rose that’s got Tom so fascinated. Bill got it because he was so lost after his femme years, and his own internal compass for good people and good choices was shot to pieces. It was a reminder to re-orientate himself against the tides of change and social prejudice that Bill experienced before, but now it’s memories bound over in Bill’s skin to remind him of where he’s come from.

Maybe that’s why Tom is fascinated by it. He’s curious about the _old_ Bill, the one that Bill hasn’t told him much about yet.

But right here right, that’s not the Bill that’s kissing Tom. This Bill is very different, and that’s the one that Tom is trying to get to give him more kisses. All the kisses, that’s what Bill is concerned about.

And trying to pull Tom’s vest top up.

Taking clothes off is not a prerequisite to sex – on the contrary, clothed sex is serious fun, but Bill wants to _see_ Tom. He wants to touch, and to kiss, and maybe even to _lick_ because so far, everything sexual has been conducted with clothes on, behind the baggy extra, extra, extra large jeans and t-shirts that Tom favours. As much as that’s fun, it’s still not what Bill wants today.

He reaches down, snags the hem of Tom’s t-shirt. “Come on, let me…” It’s not even a complete sentence, just four words strung together. Any other time, Bill would be disappointed in himself because he’s usually fairly articulate, but it gets the message across.

Bill gets his hands underneath Tom’s baggy t-shirt, taking a moment to stroke the soft skin that he finds, revelling in the fact that the very lightest pressure gives Bill a wonderful response. Tom almost _purrs_ , and Bill knows that, whatever _it_ was, it was damn good for him. Bill does it again, letting his fingers just follow Tom’s happy trail with gentle touches, stopping shy of the waistband of his boxers and Tom just _melts_ into the bed. It’s as though Bill has flipped a switch. Fucking cat. Another touch, following the line of a sharp hipbone, and Tom’s just _gone_ completely.

If it was another day, if it was a _different_ day, Bill would keep on doing it, seeing what made Tom melt, and what made him react in _other_ ways. But today is not that day, and it has to be another thing to explore later on. But what _is_ worth exploring now is the fact that Tom is now as absolutely relaxed as he’ll ever be, and Bill has to push home his advantage, get Tom completely naked while he’s still okay with it.

“Arms up.” It’s the work of a moment to strip off the t-shirt, throwing it somewhere towards the door so they don’t get tangled up in it later.

No more words are necessary for a while; there’s never a need for words when kisses will do, touches and caresses standing in for the spoken language that wouldn’t even cover half of what Bill wanted to say anyway. Bill’s hands take over the conversation, knowing exactly the best way to respond to the way that Tom’s reacts to him – the way he sighs when Bill presses closer to him, the way that he moans when his nipples are touched, _oh_ , so lightly. Tom’s body, his whole body from head to toe, is wired for touch and response, and it shows.

He’s not desensitised yet. Bill likes it. _A lot._

“Lift up.” Bill plucks at the waistband of the boxers, letting his fingers dip below the material to touch at the sensitive skin there.

Really, that’s all it takes for Tom to move – just a light touch and the mere _promise_ of more, and he’s moving, lifting up his hips so Bill can pull down the boxers, throwing them somewhere over his shoulder in the direction of the door.

Now that Tom is naked – _finally_ after eight months of hiding behind towels and not showering together, and wrapping up like a mummy with all the clothes he possibly can – Bill can look. He can appreciate. He can touch and hold and caress, which is what he’s been dying to do for so long.

But the hands plucking at Bill’s own waistband, pulling at his t-shirt, tell him that Tom’s not happy about the unbalanced nature of him being naked and Bill being clothed. He’s bright pink, obviously embarrassed, and he doesn’t seem able to speak, but his hands are doing it for him.

“You want me to take them off?” Bill asks, just to be irritatingly coy, and Tom glares at him. “Tell me what you want, Tom.”

“Fuck off.” Well, that’s nice.

“Use your words, Tom,” Bill says, sweetly, “Or I don’t know what you want.” He does, but he wants Tom to say it. It’s important for him to use his words too, and Bill likes to be told what his partners _wants_.

“Uuuuuuurgh.” Tom rubs his face on his arm, unwilling to let go of Bill still, before squaring his shoulders. “You. Clothes. Off.” Spitting each word out, Tom flames slightly pinker, but he did what Bill asked.

Mostly. It was neither a coherent sentence, nor polite, but whatever. It’s good enough for Bill, though. “Your wish, Tom, is my command.”

It is.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Nudity is a very freeing state of being, Bill knows, and he’s enjoying the feeling of being as free as he possibly can.

“You can touch,” he says, because he can see the way that Tom’s desperate to get this hands all over his chest again. Ever since Bill stripped off way back in the beginning of the month, he’s very obviously been dying to get his hands back on Bill without the barrier of clothing, and this time, he’s getting his chance.

As Bill expected, the second he gives Tom verbal permission, Tom’s straight in there, running his hands all down Bill’s tattoos, tracing lines and the definition of his muscles, revelling in the exposed skin. It’s like he’s been deprived; if he’d asked, he would have been given absolute and unending permission to touch whatever he wanted. But now, Tom’s got that permission, and he’s taking full advantage of free and clear access to Bills’ bare chest.

And to the nipple ring.

Maybe Tom has a nipple fetish. Maybe he’s just a junkie for jewellery, but whatever it is, it’s made him fascinated with the jewellery that Bill picked for his nipple piercing. This time, it’s a bar with two dangling charms. **B** and **T** , in gold letters.

“Nice…” Tom touches the little gold line, using his thumb to caress the sensitive skin and the warm metal. “It’s nice…” But the way he’s licking his lips, and the way that Bill can _feel_ Tom’s dick responding – he’s not hard yet, but he’s definitely well into the area of being interested – tells Bill that he thinks it’s _more_ than nice. A lot more.

“Another time.”

Bill **will** get Tom to explain what it is about the nipple piercing that he loves one day, and Bill is actually wondering if it’s because Tom has a thing for nipples.

He loves having his own played with, that’s for sure. He goes all gooey and relaxed, and if he were a cat, he’d be purring. Loudly. It gets to his dick, too, and when he tries to describe it to Bill – always in the moment, never afterwards because he _can’t_ afterwards – it’s like a slow rise of pleasure. Not quick, and not easily definable, but something that just keeps building and building for him, the pleasure warm under his skin.

Bill loves playing with Tom’s nipples, too, just because they’re pretty and soft, and he likes pretty, soft things. He also loves it when Tom is pretty and soft because Tom _tries_ so hard to not be. He fights tooth and nail with baggy clothes and a filthy mouth not to be pretty and cute and sweet, but whatever he does, it actually reveals he _is_. Tom seems to think he shouldn’t have a nipple thing even if Bill knows it’s awesome, and he knows that if he got Tom his own nipple piercings, there would be no hope for Tom at all.

He would love, and is actually planning, to take Tom to the tattoo parlour in the New Year. It’s Bill’s regular parlour, the one where he got most of his current tattoos and bits of metal.

The place is in a converted warehouse, up in Manchester – the one good place that Bill found there – and he trusts the artists and piercers working there to do a good job. It’s not cheap, but that’s the price you pay for talent. Bill is going to take Tom there because he wants Tom to get his ears pierced. Even though Tom’s said _okay, whatever, I agree, can we go back to kissing now?_ to the suggestion at the time, Bill knows that he won’t have the balls to go by himself. Tom doesn’t tend to enact major changes on his own, preferring consistency over dynamic alterations.

Bill can’t get the thought out of his head about how much Tom would look amazing with some more piercings, though, and once he gets Tom _started_ , he knows that it would be a slippery slope down from piercing ears to getting some nipple piercings, and maybe even some genital stuff done, too. Pretty hoops in silver or gold, studs with precious stones in them, chains connecting everything. Bill has thought _way_ too much about how that would look, a silver chain from nipple to nipple, drawn down to the ring above Tom’s dick… Holy fuck, that’s a good image, and Bill is determined to see it though one day.

But that’s not for now. Bill is trying to keep Tom moving, rather than getting stuck on the nipple piercing, even though he could let Tom play all day. He closes his hand around Tom’s fingers as they touch the dangling charms ever so gently, drawing their joined hands up to his mouth to kiss Tom’s knuckles to reassure him that he’s not done anything wrong.

“Wh-“

“Do you trust me, Tom?” Bill waits for the response, and he knows that it’s a bit of whiplash change, but he wants an answer.

“Yes.”

Bill is impressed with how fast that came out. There was no hesitation or second guessing. Tom didn’t even think about it; _yes_ was his first and only response. Bill feels rather honoured.

“Then let’s do something fun.”

This is why Bill knew he would love sex with Tom. It’s not perfect, and it’s not the best looking sex ever, and it’s messy, but it’s _real_. It feels amazing.

It feels _right_.

Not that it’s been quick, though. After all, it’s taken them a while to get to this point, with Bill inside of Tom, chest to chest, with Tom’s leg drawn up over Bill’s hip. Bill doesn’t know how much exactly, because he took away the clocks on the bedside tables. He didn’t want Tom to worry about how _long_ something was taking, but he can feel that quite a bit of time has passed. Doesn’t matter, though. It’s about feelings and waiting for it to feel right, rather than for it to be strictly controlled by a clock.

But it was a good journey to get to here.

Bill enjoyed every step of the way. It started with helping Tom to lie back and making him comfortable with a pillow under his hips (and a towel. Sex can be _messy_ ) and reaching for the lube and carried on through watching Tom’s face shift through a tiny second of panic into calm acceptance and interest. Kissing was a good plan; Tom had been able to let go of his anxiety over sex and it needing to be perfect, trusting Bill to know exactly what he was doing.

He did.

From that point, when Tom was calm and able to let Bill back off just a bit, it was easy to transition to the next step.

Bill reached into the bedside drawer, and Tom watched, in silence.

Prepping Tom for his dick was divine. Bill doesn’t have another word to describe it, but it just felt …divine. Feeling the heat, the pressure, helping Tom to relax, finding his prostate and just brushing over it to see what happened, everything was about testing new things, unexplored boundaries.

And it was worth it.

Tom went from being calm and in control to being half way to hard with just a single touch between his cheeks, and all the way there when Bill managed to get inside. It was slow, and steady, and Bill used copious amounts of the clear gel, partly as a safety precaution and partly because he just enjoys the feeling of it around his dick. Sex is supposed to be messy. That’s half the fun - getting everything wet, sloppy noises, everything being slick and hard to hold onto, that’s the brilliant thing about it all. Tom really didn’t object to the lube and fingers either, spreading his knees when Bill encouraged him, and moaning his approval _very_ loudly.

It’s a good job the next door neighbours have gone away for Christmas. That’s all Bill can say.

Being inside Tom – that first moment was exactly how Bill imagined it, and then a hundred times better. Everything was tight, and hot, and keeping still to allow Tom to adjust was hard. But the expression on his face; brows knitted tight together, his mouth, usually so soft, tense, and his eyes shut tight – told Bill that moving would be a bad idea, rather than a good one.

It took time for Tom to relax, and Bill kept kissing Tom, kept touching him and talking to encourage him to relax. It was difficult but they got there, and gradually, it went from being a bad idea to move to being a _good thing_. **Very good.**

Bill set the pace right from the beginning, aiming for something that’s somewhere just above slow and steady. Too fast could hurt Tom, and it’s _boring_. It wasn’t about who can finish first now, it’s not about setting a pace that’s punishing, painful, or designed to prove that Bill _owns_ Tom. It was about pleasure and fun.

That was about five minutes ago.

And now, they’re back to square one again. So far, missionary position hasn’t been an unmitigated success, in all honesty. Tom’s struggling to relax for long, tensing up every few minutes and Bill can feel the tension in his chest and hands, which isn’t good. Bill was hoping that the closeness would reassure Tom, and the angle for Bill’s dick would make it pleasurable. So far, he’s got one out of the two, and Tom’s not relaxed at all.

“Ca- I need - Bill!”

Bill wallows in the new sensations, enjoying the fact that Tom is ridiculously tight around his dick. It’s not like anyone he’s ever been with, and that’s exactly what he thought would happen.

Maybe it’s the emotions around a long term relationship; maybe Bill’s just ridiculously sappy, but he enjoys the way that Tom feels like nobody else he’s ever had sex with – the warmth, the tightness, the smell of his skin and the taste of his mouth – it’s all new. All different. It feels good even though he’s not moving very much at all, just rocking ever so slowly in and out of Tom.

Bill takes the time to muse as he strokes Tom’s sides, waiting for him to loosen up again. He’s purposefully keeping everything low key, even if he’s wondering if they should stop.

“Breathe, Tom.”

It’s the second time he’s done this, tensing up, his hands on Bill’s shoulders taut and digging into the skin there. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s certainly not comfortable for Bill. “Can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” Sex for the first time is never going to be easy - a quick spread of lube then hard and fast pounding only exists in porn, and for good reason. It’s not supposed to be technically correct either, nobody’s giving them grades or filming it, so there’s no reason for perfection. It’s supposed to feel good, and bring them closer together, and maybe even be funny and silly and bizarre. So getting Tom to breathe, to relax and _let_ it happen, rather than trying to seize control or try to keep everything just so, is important.

“Shut up.”

Bill doesn’t entertain that with a response. Tom’s naturally abrasive defense mechanisms washing off of his back without a second thought. Tom’s always that way – react first, think later – and Bill knows he’s got a _lot_ to process at the moment. New sensations, new emotions, a new dynamic. It’s a lot for Tom to take in. He leans down, rests his forehead on Tom’s so they’re as close as they can get. “What do you need?”

He can guess, but he needs Tom to say it first.

“I can’t – “ Tom shakes his head, looking past Bill to the ceiling. “I’m – it’s not…”

Bill stops moving completely, waiting for Tom to finish his sentence. Unfortunately, he doesn’t, and Bill is left to fill in the gaps himself. “It’s not working for you?” Okay, that’s definitely a little bit of a mood killer. As it should be. “What do you need, baby?”

“-sses.” Tom’s actually asking for them, and Bill understands that he needs to be grounded, that somehow he’s lost, even though Bill is balls deep inside of him and touching him _everywhere_ that’s possible. But maybe that’s not enough. Maybe Tom wants a different kind of touching. “I want kisses.”

“I’m here, Tom.” Bill is, and he’s not going anywhere. He will be pulling out, though. Even though Bill loves the tightness, the heat, everything, the fact that _Tom_ is not enjoying it is definitely killing Bill’s fun at this point. “Breathe out for me, and you can have your kisses.”

Bill can do kisses. And then they can try plan B.

\--

The new position is working much, _much_ better for Tom and, by extension, for Bill.

Holy fuck, is it working for Tom. Bill’s slightly amused at the way Tom’s reactions have gone from muted and mostly small to absolutely off the charts.

Bill picked missionary for their first position just because it offered emotional and physical intimacy, and it would give Tom a little more control than his second choice, of hands and knees for Tom, Bill behind on his knees. But maybe he underestimated the intensity of that emotional intimacy, the closeness being too much for Tom, because this new one gives him a little distance, just enough to keep himself together. Not much – not enough to make him disappear off into his own world because they’re still connected through at backside and dick, and Bill’s hands can go _a_ roaming, as it were.

But the difference is immense. In a positive and good way.

It’s like night and day.

Having Tom on his hands and knees, bracing himself for each forward push means that he feels more in control, means that he feels like he can hold himself firm against Bill’s thrusts that send him rocking back and forth. It’s ironic though, since this position probably gives _Bill_ the most control. With one hand on Tom’s back and the other holding onto his hip, Bill can set the pace, keep Tom’s head down, control how far his arms and legs are spread, and he can get even _deeper_ into Tom, all from the driving position. So to speak.

But whatever makes Tom feel better.

It’s not like Bill is arguing against this position or anything, because it’s fucking amazing.

It makes him feel _powerful_ ; he can hold Tom down with just a hand, pull him here and there just like that, and Bill enjoys that. He likes pulling Tom hither and thither, just because he _can_.

Tom doesn’t object either. When Bill reaches up, pressing his head down with just two fingers up the back of his neck, Tom doesn’t even fight him. He lets it happen, dropping his head, and moving his knees ever so slightly further apart before Bill eased back in again.

Nothing feels better, in Bill’s now revised book.

He takes a moment to admire the view. Tom’s hair, far from being tightly restrained by hat or scarf, is loose and cascading everywhere, honey, blonde and brown dreadlocks hanging down and just touching the bed because they’re so long. They sway with the rhythm of Bill rocking into Tom, following the movement of their bodies a second behind.

Against the warm skin of Tom’s back, Bill’s hand looks _right_. The [black ink of his tattoo](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/kseenaa/1562626/1358598/1358598_original.jpg) is stark against Tom’s skin, his gold rings and leather bracelets contrasting against the few moles and freckles scattered across pale flesh. Bill rests his palm in the middle of the constellation in the center of Tom’s back, revelling in the resulting shudder and sigh from Tom at the weight and sensation. Around Bill’s dick, Tom tightens agreeably again, and then some. As much as it feels good, Bill knows what it means. Still jumpy then.

“What are you feeling?” Bill asks, and if it’s slightly breathless, he ignores it. He’s fitter than he’s ever been in his life, but he still _sounds_ like he always used to, breathy and a little close to giggles. Damnit.

“Fu- what?”

“What. Are. You. Feeling?” Each word is punctuated by a half thrust, and Bill loves the way that Tom inhales every time, just a tiny sound that goes right to his dick, as he responds to the movement, trying to rock backwards but just a second too late to meet Bill properly. “Talk to me.”

“S’good.” Well, it’s a start. “I – fuck, it’s just – I –“

And again, Tom’s lost it. Keeping it together enough to string words together when he’s in the middle of pleasure is apparently hard when it’s a handjob, and impossible when the pleasure involves actual penetration. He is absolutely lost, at sea with all the stimulation and the sensations. Even though Bill can’t see his face, he can read Tom like an open book; the urge to move increasing, the _neediness_ , the desperation in his voice, it’s all telling a story. Bill would love to test it further. “Just good?”

“L-love it!” Better.

Bill keeps going, enjoying the changes in sensations around his dick when Tom breathes in, the shudders travelling right through his body. He talks to Tom, praising him for staying calm, staying down, keeping himself in the position that Bill picked, because he loves talking to Tom. What he loves more – and this is why penetration is fucking awesome – is that he can _feel_ Tom responding right in the core of his body, the way that calling his name, stroking his chest, touching his belly before running his fingers back up to thumb those pretty latte coloured nipples makes Tom tighten and shudder and shake inside. Bill has a direct line into Tom’s thought processes about pleasure and sex with his dick, and _it’s amazing_.

Okay, Bill’s pretty much gone for Tom, as if he wasn’t before, but it’s just so _good_.

Tom isn’t quiet either, and Bill knows that even though Tom isn’t very practised with sex and whatever, he has absolutely got Bill’s talking thing _down pat_. A hundred percent, hit the nail on the head, straight to the point figured it out. The way that he keeps trying to respond, calling out Bill’s name, the fact that he’s _almost begging_ for touches, for **more** , **_and harder_** it absolutely has Bill by the balls. If Bill was more cynical, he’d suspect Tom of doing it deliberately, but Bill knows that Tom genuinely doesn’t have any control over his mouth when he’s like this, and the fact that Bill is riding high on it is just icing on the cake for him.

Sex is sex, but Christ, this is _awesome sex_.

It doesn’t last long, though. Bill doesn’t know how much time passes again, but he knows that it’s not been forever, even though it feels like it. It could be an hour has passed, it could be twenty minutes, but it doesn’t matter. Taking away the clocks means that they’re drifting on emotions, not time, and Bill knows that the end is coming closer. What they want to focus on now is each other. Bill is looking forward to feeling the rush of his orgasm, helping Tom through his own, kissing, touching, hugging afterwards. Sex doesn’t just _stop_ when climax happens, it changes again.

Tom’s given in on the whole _I can hold myself up_ thing. He managed to keep it going for a surprisingly long time, given that he’s not got hours of training in the gym behind him. That was the only thing that got Bill his ability to stay on his hands and knees through it all. Before he started working out, he managed maybe fifty seconds, but all too soon, the sheer amount of strength it took to hold himself up would be too much for him.

Now, Tom is in the exact same position. He’s got his shoulders on the bed, a pillow pulled underneath his chest, and he’s absolutely letting Bill use his body as he pleases. It’s probably a good thing that he gave in, let Bill guide him down to the bed in a gentle, controlled movement, instead of falling face first into the duvet when his elbows gave out. The change in angle is _phenomenally_ good, though, the slope of his back making everything suddenly different and _intense_ for Bill. If he was enjoying it before, now, he’s on top of the world.

Bar one thing.

For some reason, the phrase _go hard, go deep_ comes to mind, and it’s seriously bugging Bill in a very abstract, unsexy way about where it came from. It’s only the fact that he can’t reach his phone – and, you know, because it would be fucking rude to get it out in the middle of sex – that he doesn’t go and google it.

His brain might be easily side tracked, though, but his body is not.

He’s got one hand on Tom’s hip, keeping him close, and the other on his back, keeping Tom grounded. From this angle, he can see Tom’s face, and the sight of it goes straight to his dick. That’s the one big regret Bill has about hands and knees positions – it means that neither partner can really see the other’s face until they make a kind of compromise. Bill loves seeing his partner’s face, loves reading their expressions like a book because it feeds back into him, telling him how they’re feeling. But Bill had to sacrifice that for Tom’s comfort, and he’s cool with that. But now that Tom’s gone down, there’s a little bit of that back again. Like now, with Tom’s shoulders on the bed, he’s able to turn to the side a little, exposing his face, and Bill drinks the view in. Tom’s absolutely lost all sense of _hiding_ his feelings, and the pleasure he’s going through is carved into every feature. His mouth is wide open, his eyes tight shut, and he’s no longer talking – just breathing hard, the only sound he makes are deep groans coming from low in his chest.

Bill finishes first. He didn’t mean to. He was fine, holding onto self control with a confident grip, waiting for a moment to reach around and help Tom to jack off so he wouldn’t be left out.

Then Tom shuddered, and squeezed his dick just _right, and that plus his face and it was it. **Boom.**_ Bill was gone. Straight over the edge of white light, into the abyss, and into free fall.

The last thing Bill saw before he closed his eyes was Tom’s face.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

  
  
“Love you,”  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
Bill would be kind of pissed with that response; hey, it’s an _I love you,_ and that deserves more than a sigh and a nod, thank you very much. But he’s actually pretty amazed that he got that much out of Tom. Post orgasm Tom doesn’t tend to speak much at all. He’s usually all for kissing Bill and trying to remember how to breathe rather than working his mouth.  
  
It was a good orgasm, that was for sure.  
  
Once Bill pulled himself together enough to stop resting his full weight on Tom and pull out – slowly, oh so slowly because everything was _sensitive_ , and it felt like too much even though it was so good – it was the work of a moment to strip off the condom, tie a knot in it and drop it into the handily placed bin at the foot of the bed. Bill’s not a neat freak like Tom, but even he draws the line at just pitching the condom off the side of the bed for someone to stand it on when they get up.  
  
Cold semen is gross. A lot gross. You only stand in it _once_ before you start learning to aim for the bin.  
  
After that bit of important clean up, Bill collapsed next to Tom, who _still_ hadn’t moved from his position all curled up. It was somewhat endearing that even after Bill pulled out, he didn’t follow suit, dropping down into a heap. He stayed exactly where Bill left him, hands holding onto the pillow and all.  
  
But Bill can help him now; drawing him into a hug, chest to chest, and bringing him down to the bed because being folded over like that _can’t_ have been comfortable. It took a little while; unfolding Tom’s mile long legs, touching him all over because he was damp with sweat and trembling from the new feelings, Bill had to help Tom come closer because distance sucked at a time like that. Tom came willingly; he was just completely pliant as he rolled over, and trusting, and Bill loved it. Having someone who doesn’t needs words – just a pull here or there and they follow – it’s wonderful. And very helpful.  
  
Once Tom was pressed up against Bill, wide eyed and a lot pleasure drunk, Bill kissed him, reaching between his legs for his dick at the same time. Bill’s always been a multitasker, and he knew that Tom would need kisses after sex, but he needed something else too.  
  
Being kissed on the way to orgasm would be ten times better.  
  
As Bill predicted, it really didn’t take long for Tom either – a minute, maybe two, and plenty of kissing while Bill got busy with his hands below. It was hard for Tom to keep up, though. He kept wanting to _look_ down because he loves seeing Bill’s hands with all his jewellery on around his dick, but he wanted kisses at the same time, and he just got so fucking confused about which he wanted more – the visual of seeing Bill jack him off, or the sensation of being kissed.  
  
Bill loves that Tom gets so needy when it comes to touch. He’s not as easy going as Bill is, content to take his pleasure as it comes. He has to seek it out, go for it hard and fast, and when he’s getting it from two different places (Bill’s hands and his mouth), he’s absolutely torn about which one he likes more. Tom was already close, just a bit behind Bill, and honestly, he’s so easy and sensitive normally, doubly so when he’s hard and _wanting_. So it _really_ doesn’t take much to get him going. A few strokes, using the lube that was just plain _everywhere_ , letting Tom guide the pressure and the speed, and soon, there was a mess all over Bill’s fingers and wrist.  
  
“Oh my _fuck_.” Well, that’s a new take on the old Oh My God that Bill’s gotten a few times.  
  
“Good evening – ow!” For his dry sarcasm, Bill gets a smack, slap bang in the middle of his chest, right over the tattoo there. “What was that for?”  
  
“Because.” Bill would say it’s unfair to not elaborate on that because it’s rude to just end a sentence like that, but given that Bill uses it on Tom at _least_ sixteen times a day, it would be kind of hypocritical. “Shut up and cuddle.”  
  
Kind of. He’s sorely tempted to say it anyway.  
  
“Play nice, Tom.” Bill doesn’t wipe his hand off on the bed – only because Tom threatened to smack him when they were having the discussion a few days ago, because that would be _gross_ – but he does poke Tom with his clean one. “I just gave you sex.”  
  
“We _had_ sex, Bill.” If he’d know that Tom would get all precise after sex, maybe Bill should have done him a tiny bit harder. Tom’s not supposed to be snarky after sex, he’s supposed to be soft and cuddly.  
  
“Shut up and cuddle, _Tom_.” He gets a snort, but Tom squirms round, rests his head on Bill’s chest.  
  
It’s a glorious view – miles and miles of Tom stretching down Bill’s bed, the warm light from above making every inch of Tom look sumptuous and tempting all over again. Bill’s about ten minutes away from being able to be hard again – look, it’s been a while since he’s had proper sex and he’s just a bit out of practise – but if there ever was a sight to come back to…  
Tom doesn’t seem to share the same opinion. “Oh, I feel…”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
“I dunno. Not like before.”  
  
“Well, I’d hope so.” Bill snorts into Tom’s dreads and gets another poke for his trouble. “Seriously, we just had sex. Good sex. Very nice sex.”  
  
“Mmmm.” Tom sounds _very_ appreciative, and Bill grins. “It was good.”  
  
“Just good?” Maybe it’s because Bill wants to be reassured that it was good for Tom – it has been nearly a year since he’s had sex with someone else, after all, and he might have got lazy with the technique – or because he needs to be reassured for _himself_ , but he doesn’t want to leave it at just merely good. It’s not all snark that guides Bill’s words; he wants feedback.  
  
Tom’s not in the mood to use his words, though. Instead of giving his feelings voice, Tom turns, leans up towards Bill and plants one right on him; there’s tongue, lips, lots of appreciation in every second of the very long kiss that Bill didn’t expect but absolutely enjoys. Tom even reaches up, brushing his thumb along Bill’s jaw, and that is as rare as all hell, because usually he leaves that kind of touching to _Bill_. Brave Tom, then. And Bill would absolutely melt into the bed because of it, but part of him thinks he’s done that before tonight. A lot. Tom’s rarely that bold, though, easy enough in his own skin to be able to enact a kiss so _hot_ , and Bill really _really_ wants to know if it’s the sex or the afterglow feeling that made Tom feel like he could do it.  
  
Because, you know. It would be nice to repeat it and get kisses like that again. And sex. Sex on its own was pretty good too.  
  
Before Bill can catch his breath, Tom’s gone again, curling up beside Bill as though _nothing ever happened_. As if he could hide after that kiss; it just made Bill even more curious to dig around inside Tom’s head, finding out how it was for him, if he needs to talk about it. The way that the blush on his face is creeping down his neck, though, tells Bill that Tom isn’t particularly ready to discuss what just happened but… _man_.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Yep.” Tom sounds a more than a bit embarrassed, but mostly a lot pleased with himself, and Bill grins. Yep. Today was a success, even if it didn’t all go perfectly.  
  
“Come here.” Bill is agreeable and cuddly now, and he thinks Tom might be too, judging from the way he’s happily got one arm tucked underneath Bill (he doesn’t remember moving for it, but Tom can always wind his way around Bill, so easily) and the other lying up Bill’s chest. He’s as close to Bill as he can get, heedless of the fact they’re both covered in sweat, and there’s lube everywhere. It’s a big change from the afterglow period when they rutted on the couch and Tom could barely handle five seconds of being filthy before running to the shower.  
  
“What – _oh, Bill!_ ”  
  
Tom did get his wish. Bill didn’t wipe his hand on the bed clothes, leaving a wet patch to lie in for whichever of the two of them was unfortunate enough to get the right side of the bed (Tom, by the way), and so Bill considers it a good thing.  
  
On the other hand, Tom now has his own come smeared down his back because Bill _forgot_ to reach for the wipes in the bedside table, and that’s not quite so sexy. Or good.  
  
Bad idea.  
  
“ _BILL!_ ”  
  
“Ah - um. I’m - oops?”  
  
Somehow, Bill knows that he’s not going to be getting anymore kisses today, even though they just had amazing sex, and Tom _had_ been pretty relaxed. But now he’s look not just pouty and ridiculous but grumpy faced and flouncy, and Bill should be sorry.  
  
He really should. It’s beyond uncool to get someone with the ol’ semen even if it’s their own and Tom’s very precious about what he allows on his body, and when, and where. Bill doesn’t think that Tom ever considered allowing Bill to wipe his hand off on his back.  
  
But Bill just looks at Tom’s face, and he’s all poofy, like a cat, and it’s just really weird combined with the fact that he _looks_ like he’s just had amazing sex and it’s true, he has, and he’s got white smeared on his back and he looks pissed.  
  
Maybe in five seconds, Bill’ll regret what he’s about to say but you know. Post sex brain and all that. No filters, that’s Bill after orgasm.  
  
“Happy Christmas?”


End file.
